


Lofsöngur

by ThisAintBC



Category: due South
Genre: Canadian Blowjob Day Revival 2013, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisAintBC/pseuds/ThisAintBC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fraser," Ray snarls, stuffing his feet into well-worn boots, "did I or did I not say the word 'exotic'?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lofsöngur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seascribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/gifts), [brooklinegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklinegirl/gifts).



> Written for the Canadian Blowjob Day Revival Challenge, even though I have never written anything even approaching sexy times fic before. Happy (belated) birthday, Callum Keith Rennie!  
> I did approximately zero research, so beyond knowing I got all of my pics from the general area of "Southern Iceland", everything in this is probably wrong.  
> Like I said, I have never written even leading-up-to-sexy-times fic before, so con crit is very much welcome!  
> Originally posted (with much finger nail biting) to the due South Virtual Bar lj comm on Sunday, September 15.

 

 

 

 

 

A tiny cabin, filled with snowshoes and woodstoves and books, set snug between a ridge and the howling wind. The heavy fog of that morning has burned off into a relentless blue sky, purpley-pale like pasque flowers in the spring; to the east there is nothing but foothills unfolding into steep-walled canyons and green grass, and to the west nothing but mountains.

Stanley Ray Kowalski is not best pleased. “Fraser,” he snarls, stuffing his feet into well-worn boots—not the black head-kicking boots of his Chicago PD days or the comfortably clumsy snow boots from the adventure, but a pair of brown leather hiking boots that smell like swamp mud and dog spit. “Did I or did I not say the word ‘exotic’?”

“But Ray-“

“Yes or no, Fraser?”

“Well, Ray, yes, you did ask for somewhere exotic, but I am failing to see how Iceland does not qualify. It has several truly fascinating endemic species, such as _Nanoarchaeum equitans_ , a thermophile discovered earlier this year which likely is not only a unique species but a unique phylum. And the scenery is—“ Ray cuts him off before he can _really_ hop on board that runaway train of a monologue.

“Fraser.”

“Yes, Ray.” His tone is formal, which Ray knows means he’s headed toward pissy, but he won’t give this up just because Fraser’s drawing himself up for a fight. He gets right in Fraser’s face.

“Look around you. This place is just like home.” Fraser’s mouth opens, and he waves his finger at him. “Just. Like. Home. You brought me to our house but in a different country for our honeymoon. Your feelings can be hurt all you like, buddy, but you had one job.”

“You know, Ray,” and there his hand goes, Ray swears one day he’s going to rub that eyebrow right off, “I think if you would just let me show you…”

And that’s how Ray ends up outside, pack strapped over his shoulders and around his waist, muttering at Fraser’s back as they trudge up the ridge. Fraser is silent, patiently waiting for Ray as he struggles his way up through the snowpack and audibly holding back a sigh when he carelessly leaps from boulder to boulder.

“Look, Fraser,” Ray begins, feeling a tad more generous now that he’s doing his best impression of a billy goat, “I know you think this is, uh, weird enough a place to count, but next year how about we try this again and I get to pick the place? Because I like home, I love home, home is not where I want to go on vacation, you get me?”

“Ray, please, if you’ll just wait until we reach the top of the ridge, I believe you may change your mind.”

“All right, Fraser-buddy. All I’m saying is: next year, Hawaii. Sunshine and swimsuits and people who speak English.”

“As you say, Ray. I agree that it’s rather unfortunate that neither of us speak Icelandic, though the locals have been very accommodating.” Fraser takes off his pack and swings it up to the top of the outcropping, free climbing after in his slow, sure-footed, way. Ray appreciates the view from below for a few minutes and follows suit, preening in his ability to read the climb and scramble up faster than Fraser.

And then he looks up, and out, and he can practically feel the smugness radiating off his partner.

“Ben.” Ray says, looking out at the hills that belong to a painting more than they belong to real life.

“Yes Ray?”

“Shut up.”

“Understood.”

 

 

 

Stanley Ray Kowalski loves his husband, even when he wants to kill him. Today was the sort of day that makes being a widower look like a better and better prospect; it started off with Fraser dragging him to exactly the opposite of the sort of place he’d like to go to for a honeymoon, and ended with Fraser smirking and making smug comments about “we can go to Hawaii if you’d really rather, Ray”. The argument—though Fraser would never agree that it is one, irritating Mountie—has drawn them closer and closer, until they’re standing toe to toe, half-washed dishes forgotten in the sink.

“Damn it Ben, why do you always have to be right? Can’t you be wrong, just once?” Ray is yelling, or thinks he’s yelling. He lost track of his own words several minutes ago when Fraser swiped his tongue across his lips.

“Ray,” Ben pleads, and that helpless tone is enough to cut every tie to sanity Ray has left. He crashes into Ben, shoving his wrists against the wall and his tongue into his mouth. Ben pulls his hands free, runs them down his sides, and dips his fingers below Ray’s waistband, digging flannel free from denim before skimming upward again. Ray thinks hazily that he should be trying to remove Ben’s clothes himself, and fumbles toward his belt, but loses track of his fingers when Ben pulls his mouth free and goes for that spot just beneath his ear.

“Ray,” he pants, pulling shirt and undershirt up over spiky hair, “Ray, bed.”

“No.” Ray growls, pushing Ben more firmly against the wall again. Fraser’s been Mr In-Charge-Smarty-Pants Mountie all day long; it’s his turn to call the shots. “You stay right where you are.” He finally manages to get the belt free, and from there it’s only two swift movements before Ben’s pants and underwear are on the floor, trapping him in place.

Ray sinks to his knees, as gracefully as a 40-something ex-cop can, and as Ben’s head thunks against the wall he thinks to himself that he would never be able to coax these sorts of noises out of Ben in some tourist trap island hotel. _Maybe_ , he thinks wickedly, humming snatches of Gang of Four to himself and listening to Ben gasp, _we’ll come to Iceland again next year after all._

 

 

 

__

 Gratuitous Dief+wedding cake pic!

**Author's Note:**

> Photos scavenged from the following locations:  
> -http://cabinporn.com/post/19010751849/sod-roof-houses-in-vik-iceland-photo-by-gilles  
> -http://moro.35photo.ru/photo_237499/  
> -http://wolfdogblog.com/post/53944256836  
> If I used your photo and you want it taken off and/or credited in a specific way, please let me know!


End file.
